Be! Be! Aggressive!

New Year's resolutions... I hate them.
I hate the top resolution most: to lose weight.

This time of the year is a pain in the ass to be at the gym... having to deal with so many clueless assholes who are too... I don't know what they are... shy (?) to ask for help with equipment or a class. They just stand there and hinder the rest who actually have a routine down. They don't even use COMMON SENSE (the class is called KICKBOXING. I'm 5'8". Unless you like the feel of a shoe up your ass, I suggest you get at least three feet away from me, retard).
I'm FINE with helping a newbie out... I actually like it, and I'm very nice and encouraging to them, because I know how intimidating the gym can be the first couple of visits.
I think I would be less resentful if at least half of those people who made the resolution to be gym-goers would actually stick with it. It would make the frustration worth it.
But no... most newbies are stubborn, hard-headed fuck ups... who also seem to be drawn to me like a magnet. I have to deal with the newbies fucking EVERYTHING up and really, really wearing my patience thin.

***

It's the gym... I don't know about most people, but I'm not the most pleasant person when weight-lifting or kickboxing is involved. I can't sit there and think about cute boys or what nail polish color I could be rocking because it's distracting, more than anything (I've done this in the past, and each time I find myself thinking "happy" thoughts, I get injured. I sprained the fuck out of my right wrist last March-- a sprain which has just barely healed, but gets aggravated if I do more than ten tricep pushups. My body doesn't dig/can't handle that angle-- unintentional rhyme there). I have to be aggressive. So... if you continuously shove into me, swat at me, or stand so close that you hinder my clean-and-press, I'm going to get PISSED.

This leads me to last night.
I was trying SO damn hard to keep my cool in kickboxing class. There were about... 80 people in class, I couldn't count, but I'm sure it was a fire hazard. A good 20 were new people. All the newbies were cool... except, of course, these two fucking idiots who decided to stand to my right. One was more idiotic than the other... and she was the one closest to me.
She was about five feet tall, clumsy as fuck, and maybe in her early 30s. By the way she was punching (wildly), it was obvious this midget has NEVER gotten into a physical fight... not even with her own shadow. Yet, she stood there and acted like a hardass (probably what irritated me most)... until she'd get tired and just stand there like a fucking pillar, totally killing my momentum.
She slowly but surely made her way to within a foot of me, directly in front of me. I'd have to kick to her sides, that's how bad it was. I'd purposely kick past her head, as hard as possible (if her fucking head got in the way of my foot... oopsies! Maybe you should stand a little further from the bull next time, dumbshit) and she still wouldn't move. AND THERE WAS ROOM IN FRONT OF HER (this just infuriated me).
Once the kicking portion of class was over (without any incident... although I secretly wanted to kick the shit out of one of her hands, just to send out a nice warning, you know?), it came time for the plyometric portion of class.
During the jump squats, she was almost on me. I'd blow at her ear and her hair would sway. I would stand there, and purposely blow into her ear. BITCH! I can blow INTO your ear canal... IS THAT NOT CLOSE ENOUGH?! GET THE FUCK OFF ME!
AND SHE STILL WOULDN'T MOVE (away from me. She'd actually scoot closer to me)!
If I could have, I would have moved, but see, THERE WAS NO ROOM. I was nearly against the wall. So, during one of the jumps, as I was swinging my hands upward (required motion here, not like I was doing it on purpose), I held my hand out and pressed it against her back... in my best attempt to send her a silent "Look, bitch, please, give me some room here. Get the fuck out of the way or I'll actually push my hand next time it makes contact with your stupid little back."
Cunt just looked back at me and DOGGED me.
OH HELL NAH, YOU FUCKING LITTLE BITCH!
She sealed her fate with that action-- you DON'T dog a chick who can shoot daggers with her eyes.

We took a ten second break, and then came the worst part (of class, and this violent back-and-forth):
the lateral ski lunges.
It's the speed-skater move:


This was where I got the universal OK to beat the shit out of this stupid little mole who was fucking with my patience for forty-minutes too long.
Her dogging me gave me incentive to pound these out.
I was beasting-- left, right, left right. I was jumping so far to my left then right, that I could look her in her eyes. Each time, I made sure to look her right in the face... so she could feel my stare on her at least peripherally. You. Are. Bugging. Me.
That's when she let me have it. She swung back (she was directly in front of me, back turned, obviously), trying to look enthralled by the exercise, and BAM! her right fist hit the right side of my face... then when she swung her left hand back, she scratched the shit out of my right hand.
I came to an abrupt stop and just stared at her.
AND SHE ACTED CRAZY! As if nothing had happened (this sent me over the edge. Just... how unapologetic she was about the whole thing. As if I was the one at fault).
I looked up at the trainer and he just told me to shake it off.
Shake it off?! NO ONE touches my face!
BUT! Since I'm nice (to a stupid degree), I got back into it. This time, I was STOMPING-- each time, fighting the urge to just swipe her feet and make her take a nasty fall to get trampled by the rest of class.
She scooted back closer to me, and I shoved my left forearm against her back, then my right forearm.
She looked back at me again, and dogged me again.
THEN she CAUGHT my right hand (mind you, her back was turned to me) and PINCHED it in her clasp like a motherfucking king crab or some shit (she was the fucking size of one. Short and round. Fucking sea-creature-looking cunt) and punched the left side of my face (with her back turned to me)!
ENOUGH! I can play this too!
I clenched my right fist and swung with all of my might just as she leaned to the right side.
BAM!
KIDNEY PUNCH, PERRAAAAA!

Trainer saw it... and walked over to us.
The dumb cunt was crouched over, I was standing still, and my three friends (regulars) stood there and had my back.
Badassfriend1: She moved INTO her fist.
Badassfriend2: The girl didn't see her.
Badassfriend3: All part of the class, girl.
Trainer: THAT'S IT GUYS! PUSH THE PERSON IN FRONT OF YOU! (turns off mic and speaks directly to the animal in front of me) Easy, girl.
HA-HAAAAA!
Stupid sea-creature cunt started walking away--limping-- with her friend. I made sure to dog her... then smirk, as she walked away.
She stared at me as if I had just stolen her husband.
I mouthed off "Fuck. You." in my best chola face... you know, that one where I hella bite down on my bottom lip to pronounce the "F."

I don't understand why it's always the short girls who feel the need to get aggressive with me. I always get the chicks with the mean-ass case of the Napoleon Complex to invade my space, then look for a fight. When they feel they want to flex their muscle, they always pick me as the girl on which they're going to test their strength. The quiet, shy girl minding her own business in the back corner of the room.
I may look like a pushover, and I may act like one... but just like the nicest rottwailer forced to deal with an obnoxious chihuahua, if the goddamned chihuahua bites my ears and tail for too long, I'm going to snap the bitch in half.

I SWEAR I'm a nice girl. Honest. (Just don't touch my fucking face)
Maybe that's what kept me out of jail... and still a member of the gym (I won't lie, once class was over, I jetted out of the place... even jogging to my car).

I can't wait for March to roll around ('cause February still has a couple of half-assed resolutioners hanging around and aggravating the situation).

Boo-bs

Stupid Victoria's Secret.
I look forward to their damn semi-annual sale with such anticipation... and when it finally arrives, all they have in stock are a bunch of ugly ass bras and panties that make you wonder what kind of blind, limbless (because of the fabrics they use. You have to be unable to feel in order to think some of that shit is acceptable) idiot came up with such ridiculous concepts (like, really, you're going to try to sell me underwear with glitter all over the crotch area? Come on now... we all know glitter is the herpes of arts and crafts... so to purposely put it near your cookiebox is just... who the fuck convinced them that was a good idea?).
Although... I probably shouldn't blame them entirely for the distressing selections I must choose from... I'm partly to blame in this... sort of.
I made the mistake of going on the second day of the sale.
I'm a dickhead for even thinking there will be decent bras by then... fucking women attack that sale like hawks, prime example being that one time that one lady smacked the panties out of my hand a couple of years back. Bitches don't play when it comes to cheap underwear. Maybe one day I'll turn into one of those chicks... but for now, I'll just stand next to the $5.99 bins and stare at them in disgust as they pillage the store.
My delay also allows the multitude of strippers in this town to get to the bras first.
It appears my size is quite popular with the vast number of plastic females who chose the size of their ta-tas. They get to the cool bras before I do, and I'm left to choose between the neon-colored bras or the animal-print bras... which... they're not that bad... if you want to be rescued from a deserted island and you need something to wave down a plane.

You'd think that at my age I'd have this game down... but I seriously underestimate the number of chicks who buy DD bras. The freakin' number is increasing... exponentially. Probably good for guys, but bad for me because now I'm forced to get the bullshit bras since the good ones are taken.

I was stoked when I bumped up to a C back in high school... even if it took a minute to get used to them (I had always thought I was going to be flat-chested because Mom is... almost a board, as are her sisters. The chicks on Dad's side aren't big either... so I'm pretty much an anomaly. Being that I had been flat most of my life, I had always had the habit of cleaning my hands off on my chest-- I'd just swipe my hands up there and I'd be good. Well, once the C's came in, I'd still have this habit [no, I wouldn't be wiping BBQ sauce off my hands on my shirt, but I would wipe off water, or salt/sugar, sweat... that sort of  stuff], I'd venture to say it got worse because I now had more surface to swipe. I continued to do this until one fateful day in 9th grade Biology. This year I'd wear nothing but black. When dissections came around, we had to use latex gloves... and it was probably my first time wearing latex gloves... so I didn't know of the STUPID white powder in the gloves to ease the sweating. I was still working when the bell rang for us to go to the next class, and since my next class was clear across campus, I rushed to remove the gloves. I felt the powder on my hands, but I couldn't see it, so I did a quick swipe on my chest and rushed to class. I noticed a lot of people, especially guys, double-take when I rushed past them, but since I was in such a hurry, I didn't bother to get paranoid. I sat through THREE classes... up until I went to P.E. and walked past a mirror to see what was calling the attention. There they were, on my solid black shirt: two white hand-prints on my chest... each appearing to cup a breast. I was fucking mortified... and PISSED no one had informed me of the problem. Some can argue "Well, I thought that was how the shirt was supposed to be" and to that I say Shut the fuck up! Really? Me?! The timid quiet girl wear a shirt like that on purpose? Don't kid yourself. Anyway, this was a tough lesson to learn now that I had boobs. Note to self: while cupping your breasts in order to wipe your hands clean, MAKE SURE YOU DON'T LEAVE A PRINT!).
Then stupid Veronica decided to get fancy... and wasn't happy with her C status... and grew to a D freshman year of college. Betty was forced to oblige, and I... well... I was uncomfortable... especially once the OLD MEN started noticing me and the girls. That was just... gross.
But no... the growth was not over, since Veronica is a greedy, ambitious cunt. She then gunned for the DD shortly after... Betty only half-assed followed... and so... I'm stuck at stripper size.
Just fucking lovely.

I can't wait until E's and F's start getting popular with strippers... maybe then I'll be good to shop for nice looking bras at reasonable prices in this damn city.
Fucking hoes.

Freakin' garbage

It appears Dad has joined forces with Mom to make the "Cuss-Free AnoMALIE 2011" campaign.

I was sitting at the dinner table yesterday, attempting to add avocado to my tortilla soup, when I grew agitated by the skin of the avocado. The piece of shit would crumble when I'd be in the process of peeling it off the (very creamy) fruit. It was extremely frustrating to peel because I'd always have to go back and pick off tiny pieces of skin that would refuse to come off. It was a fragile, crumbling piece of shit (see, I still get aggravated just thinking back to it).
Once I'd had enough, I raised my voice and screamed at the avocado that I was crushing with my left hand (because I scream at and beat inanimate objects when I'm angry).
Me: This... (fucking!) avocado is fffff(UCKING!!)reakin' (SHIT!!!) GARBAGE!
Dad: Watch your mouth! Aren't you ashamed of talking like a vulgar cantinera (bartender) when you're around your father?
Me: I DIDN'T CUSS! That's me making an actual effort to keep from cussing. I called it "garbage!"
Mom: I TOLD you you should start watching your mouth! You don't even feel when you drop curse words anymore!
Me: I SAID "FREAKIN' GARBAGE!!" (...I think... right?) That's not vulgar at all!

I sat there getting lectured by both parents over how perfect I'd be if I could only erase the curse words from my vocabulary.
Me: It's not like I curse around children. I don't even talk! I keep the cussing around my friends and nuclear family... I don't even cuss around my aunts or cousins... well, most of the time. That's who I AM!
Mom: Well, I understand the cussing... if used under different conditions. Wouldn't you prefer to be like your father (because Mom cusses her freakin' heart out herself!) and be known as someone who ONLY cusses when they're furious?
Me: I'm fine with being known as the girl who punches and kicks walls when she's pissed. MMA fighters get paid for that shit.
Dad: MAAAAN! YOUR MOUTH!

So, I'm really debating whether or not to even speak anymore.
No manchen. I'm a good girl... with a less-than-ideal mouth... but I only let that out when I'm at ease with my company. I hate being fake with people... and that's exactly what I'd be if I started watching my mouth at all times.
It's BULLSHIT, MOTHERFUCKERS!

Se que yo siempre quiero mas

Random text from my brother:

Rafa: I have stupid Maroon 5 songs stuck in my head now. Thanks, fags.

Me: I hope it's the country song! "I WONDERRR... DOES YOUR MAAAAAAN STILL SHUDDER WHEN YOU TOUCH HIS HAAAAAAND, LIKE THIS MAAAN!" (song I was screaming into his ear as we were driving him to the airport)

Rafa: No, it's the one that says something about "hearts pumping... counting down to ze-e-ro." But I'm not sure what the actual lyrics are because the fag lead singer needs speech therapy!

Me: "5, 4, 3, 2, 1. I won't stop until it's done." No Curtain Call. Hahahaha!

Then we went on a much more un-PC conversation over Adam Levine's supposed speech impediment.
Then I got him to admit that my music has a tendency to be good. Waaaa-pshhhhhhh! His total obsession? Gustavo Santaolalla's band. Of course, that man's a fucking musical genius.



(Gratuitous crotch shot. You're welcome)
no se donde acomodarte
no se de que color pintarte
no se muy bien que nombre darte
si te veo por la calle pero
se que tu me miras a los ojos y es algo unico
se que yo siempre quiero mas
no se porque si fue solo un instante
se niega el tiempo a borrarte
fue una fina sombra que dejaste
algo hermoso inexplicable

Anyway, this is why I think every girl should have a brother. It's fun... when they're not shooting rubber bands into your eyes (what? Only my brother did that to me? Ok).

Cuss-free Spain?

So, with my birthday less than two months away (I made the mistake of saying my birthday was three months away a couple of days ago. Goes to show how much of my brain I'm really using during this time of the year), I've really been thinking hard about what I want to do to celebrate the aging of my cells.
I don't usually ask for anything (adding weight to Pacemaker's theory that my family and I are actually Jehovah's Witnesses) because I feel shitty doing so. I usually just wait for Mom to bring up my birthday and what I would like to do in order to celebrate. That's when I usually throw out ideas, if I'm ever in the mood for anything (which I'm usually not).

Well... that being said, this year I'm kind of feeling like actually celebrating... out of this continent... for a month or two. I've been hinting at it to my parents, but they don't bite. They haven't asked me shit.
How the fuck can I make this work?

***

In case you haven't noticed, or I haven't said it enough times, I'm kind of a potty mouth. Kind of.
I go through phases where I don't say more than a few "fucks" and the occasional "shit," every other day... but then I have these spells where I will drop a curse word every other word, in various languages, every other second.
I know I'm at my dirtiest when I continuously say "Goddamn" and the Spanish word "verga." I never say "goddamn" unless I'm FURIOUS, or going through my "vulgar prostitute slang" phase (that's what my mom calls it) because it honestly makes me feel bad. I always cower, expecting to get struck by lightening, as I apologize to the sky when I drop that big word. "Verga" is said out of habit, usually after hanging out with dudes for prolonged periods of time. That word's just fun... it sounds funny, and it REALLY irritates my mom.

This leads me to what happened last night as I sat in the living room with Mom and Sister.
Sister wanted to watch me play Donkey Kong Country (I curse the day we purchased that game, because now I swear I hear monkeys everywhere... even in my sleep), so I obliged.
We were all huddled on the couch, watching me try to pass the stupid game (I have no feeling on either thumb, and my right index finger feels broken, all thanks to the death-grip I place on the controller... because I'm Steinbeck's Lennie Small).
Anyone who has had the pleasure to watch me play video games... or any sort of game, really, can see how competitive I get... and when I get competitive... I turn into the vulgar prostitute/catinera alter ego. I will cuss... and cuss... and cuss.
I come up with strange swear-word combinations (my favorite so far, which I have adopted to use in regular conversation, is "Puto hijo de perra" [comparable to "asshole, son of a bitch"] which I one day yelled at a taxi for cutting me off. I was supposed to say "perro, hijo de puta!" [comparable to "bitch, son of a whore!"] but my brain jumbled it all up, and what came out was so poetic, I damn near patted my own back) which no one is safe from, not even Donkey Kong is not safe from this... especially when I keep dying because the fuckface doesn't jump high enough.
Mom was sitting next to me, and she finally spoke up after about half an hour of my cussing crusade.
Mom: Oye, AnoMALIE, estaria bueno si dejaras de usar esas palabrotas para el año nuevo. (Yo, AnoMALIE, it'd be great if you would stop using those words for this new year)
Me: That? My resolution? Hell no!
Mom: It will make you a better person. You just need to take that initial step of stopping.
Me: I love cussing. Don't try and make me change that!
Mom: Let's start a challenge. All three of us get into it. See who can last without cussing the longest.
Me: Now why would I do that? There's no incentive. In case you haven't noticed, I'm not much into challenges. I'll just admit defeat and continue to cuss within minutes. I don't care. Will I get anything out of it?
Mom: ... you name it.
(Oh no... here comes the competitive monster in both of us, rearing its ugly head. It's like watching two rams scoot back and aim their horns at each other. We're bad)
Me: Eurotrip part two.
Mom: That's what not cussing for a year is worth to you?
Me: Yeah. But I'd have to go around my birthday, I'm not about to wait a year to go out there. I'll already be too old to get into museums at the discounted student price (I was informed of this back when I was in Bilbao. 26 is the age limit. I was 23 back then, and my response was "Y yo paresco de 26 o que puta madre?" This made me pay full price, obviously. The chick was not too happy)
Mom: No. You'd have to not cuss for a year, then head out there. It'll be good for you. Because recently, you've been saying some "palabrotas" that I never taught you (verga).
Me: Fuck that shit. No.

And that is how my mom nearly got me to quit cussing, and I nearly got my wish for Barcelona part two.
Me not cuss? Pfffffft!

Pendeja ilusión

This cold weather needs to go away, it's making me have nightmares... the "action-packed" style of nightmares. I get tired even thinking about it (Ah, man! Running away from armed gunmen again? Can't I just dream about sea monsters or something that requires me to sit perfectly still and quiet? It's still a nightmare, but I can.... a fuck! Bombs?! You serious?! Ok, I'm running).

Anyway, como me siento? Así:



(And that is why more people should listen to Chopin)

No la puedo escuchar sin querer llorar. Me imagino la letra en español, y es entonces cuando se me escapa una que otra lagrimilla.

Divina ilusión... que yo forjé. Un sueño fue... que no se realizo.
Sin tu calor mi alma morirá, pensando siempre en ti.
Dulce amor ven a mí.
Recuerda, mi bien, lo que tu y yo soñamos siempre para nuestro amor.
No puedo mas.
Siento que mi alma se desgarra, pues le faltan las caricias y los besos de tu amor.
Ven dulce bien, dame la ilusión de saber que al fin de mi serás.
Divina ilusión que yo forje. Un sueño fue, que no se realizo.
No puedo mas.


Canción perfecta para una ilusa como yo, no creen? La puta historia de mi vida.
La neta, ya sí me doy por vencida. Ya me canse de tanta mamada causada por la ilusión de niña pendeja.

I've been barred from becoming a nun. Mom was down with the idea, but my sister burst my bubble with her "I'll be fucking DAMNED if I have a nun for a sister. I swear I'll prevent that shit from happening. I'll lie if I have to."
I guess she's cooler with the thought of having a Cat Lady for a sister... which is fine... as long as she promises to tell me when I start smelling TOO much like cat piss.

Anyway, application process part two, here I come.

11-11

I pregamed for the New Year's festivities at home... with my mom. How's that for weird? AND I did it per her request.
I was just going to head out with some friends for dinner, shots, and the countdown... but Mom was all up in my business wanting me to get drunk since the previous day.
Some people may not find this strange, but see... MY mom asking me to get shitfaced for New Year's is like having Mother Theresa ask you to get smashed. It makes you worry.

So, I was only following orders when I took a double shot with her... and I was downright threatened into drinking some champagne with her before heading out (when this little lady tells you to do something, you do not ask questions... you just do it before you wake up in the ER with missing teeth and one eye).
Me: Para que quiere eso, si ni siquiera son las doce todavía? (what do you want that for, if it isn't even twelve yet?)
Mom: Oh, porque quiero! (oh, because I want to!)
I turned my glass of champagne into a mimosa, 'cause the shit Mom bought was gross.

Anyway, I left Mom to get trashed off the bottle of champagne on her own (which she did. She told me this morning that when she went to bed, she nearly fell because she felt the bed turn into a waterbed. That was cute).
The plan was to be calm and spend a couple of hours with my best boys... you know, so I could keep from debating whether or not to crash Darcy's fun (which I wouldn't do [sober] because I really have no business being on that side of town, my side is far more poppin' so to speak, since I live a hop and a skip away from the awesome beer palace known as Yardhouse), 'cause these guys keep me from thinking about, well, guys.
The boys were great and everything, dinner was pretty (I'd say "good" but I wasn't feeling so great, so I didn't really enjoy eating anything. But it all looked nice), the conversation was hilarious... but I was just a little irritated with some of the guys there because they fucking swear they're part of Kanye's posse or some shit, let's just put it that way (the way they dress and speak).
The dude who randomly kissed me at the posada the other day was also there... and he was joking about New Year's kisses and shit... and all I could say was "Homie, you ain't touchin' me" (apparently I too think I'm part of Kanye's crew).
I was also a little bored because the shindig was a total sausage-fest... with about three guys for every girl... and I... well... I don't really enjoy being in that position... 'cause I'm sure if there'd be more chicks in the picture, they'd ignore me and allow me be the wallflower I really am. Those thoughts rush to my head all the time, so then I turn into a bitch and I respond to flirtation with sarcastic, caustic shit that would make anyone wonder what the hell was wrong with me. I'm sorry, I'm just fucked up like that... my bad.
SO! Before I turned too much into the Ice Queen of the room, I left and met up with my sister at The Cosmo... where the ratio of girls to guys was far more favorable, and I was able to relax.
Who was there? Jay-Z, Coldplay... and I think Kanye (how fucking ironic).
The vibe was nice... until one of the girls of the group came up to us crying, because apparently she lost her wallet that had her entire life-- except her phone-- in it.
It was horrible to see the poor girl that messed up... we even tried cheering her up with a Mexican Hot Dog (the ones that are wrapped in bacon. Bacon fixes everything, at least for a couple of minutes).
Once the crying girl was slightly subdued, I called it a night. The parking lot was a mess to exit (as always), and when I came home, what was I greeted with?
MENUDO.
HOMEMADE MENUDO.
MY MOM made menudo. That woman NEVER cooks. Fuck the world ending in 2012, I think it's going to happen in the coming week.

And that was my weird New Year's Eve celebration.

During the dinner, we all started talking about resolutions, and more than half of us were of the "FUCK LOVE!" crew. I even blurted out "Fuck it, I'm getting married to the first fucker that asks this year! I'm done!" but I blamed that shit on the Agavero. Marriage... pshhhhhhhh!
In all reality, I haven't even thought of resolutions. I never really follow through... like that one year I swore boys off (not that I was going to start seeing girls. I just meant no relationships), I broke that one off within days and I paid DEARLY for it.
So... no resolutions so far. Maybe just... less thinking about boys and more thinking about school. Simple enough, right? Blaaaaaah.
I also resolve to be more of a girl. This tomboy shit is starting to bug me.
And maybe I'll talk to Darcy about something other than Cristiano Ronaldo being a dick... and I'll quit being so sarcastic and full of "HA-HA!"s when writing back... I don't know why I do that.
On the physical aspect... I guess I can gun for a 150 bench-press (here I go talking shit no one wants to read). I've been meandering in the 100's like a chump for too long (last week one of my friends accompanied me, and when she saw what I was lifting, she gave me that "Ughh... muscles on girls are so gross" talk. I just laughed... 'cause this was coming form a girl whose high school sport was bowling... get out of here)... and I'll work on keeping my thighs under control, 'cause I'll be the first to admit that with those bitches, along with my ass, I could have saved all 87 members of the Donner Party that tragic winter of 1800-whatever.

Anyway, nice day.
While I was never the kid to wish on 11:11, I do find it cute that today is written "1-1-11."
Make a wish, suckaaas!